House of Balloons: Part 1
by WhispersofNature
Summary: Stiles is having a hard time dealing with his mother's death. Derek is having a hard time coping with the murder of his family. Both find each other amid attempts to rid themselves of their crushing thoughts and help one another to forgot. It's not necessarily a good thing. But, then again, it's not really a bad thing either.
1. Chapter 1

_**So, not really sure how this is gonna turn out. This story nagged at me until I finally wrote it. The idea came to me while listening to the Weeknd album House of Balloons. Each song sort of granted me a new piece of the story, so I wasn't quite sure how to structure it on this site. I'm also torn between just making mini (independent) stories or creating a larger piece. Opinions on this are welcome. **_

_**Anyways, this is my first foray into this fandom, so comments and critiques are most wanted! Let me know how I'm doing.**_

* * *

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**Part 1: _High for This_**

"Stilinski."

It all started on a Tuesday.

"_Stilinski_."

Tuesdays sucked—they weren't the fresh start of Mondays, the halfway mark of Wednesdays, the anticipation of Thursdays, or the celebration of Fridays. Tuesdays were just days to wade through, to push forward and endure because you have no other choice.

There was also the fact that one month ago to the day, Stiles' mother had died.

It had been a long time coming; everyone saw that, but it did nothing to lessen the pain. No amount of time knowing the inevitable was going to happen, that there was nothing he, or anyone, could do to stop it could've prepared him for losing her. It still came as a surprise; one day she was there, holding his hand and telling him what she'd planned to get him for his birthday, and the next she was gone. It tore a hole in him, something that no amount of condolences or casseroles could diminish. He fucking hated casseroles.

"Hey, Stilinski!"

Stiles was tired. He was tired of people offering sympathies; most of them were half-hearted at best, given because it was the "right thing to do," some obligation they felt the need to fill. He was tired of everyone treating him like a porcelain doll—too afraid to take him off the shelf for fear that he'd break, but unabashedly staring at him like he was some exhibit at the zoo. He was tired of his father tip-toeing around him, drinking himself to sleep every night while burying himself in his work during the day. He was tired of the sad looks. He was tired of the apologies. He was tired of the special treatment. Most of all, he was tired of the pain.

It wasn't the outright pain that had burned through every cell of his being those first weeks when life without his mother became a palpable thing, nor was it the pain that sat in his gut like a stone after, when every thought tried to shift away from memories of her only to be pulled back in like the tide. By now it had dulled to a slow throbbing, like a migraine that wouldn't go away, a clinging, incessant parasite. He was stuck in limbo, the pain both present and absent, ultimately leaving him numb.

He hated the numbness the most. He just wanted to feel something again—joy, sadness, excitement—_anything_ with the vibrancy that he used to.

"Hello! Earth to Stilinski!"

He was currently staring out of the window, completely aware that Coach Finstock was yelling his name. It was a miracle, really, that he'd somehow managed to get his name right for once, something that could probably be attributed to everyone's careful treatment of him lately. It made him hate it that much more.

He was also aware of the burning stares of the rest of his classmates, all silently making assumptions (or, in the case of Heather, not so quietly) about him. It was nothing new. He could also feel Scott's eyes on him, no doubt making that puppy dog expression he always made when he was worried about someone. He loved Scott, but he was really beginning to hate that look more than he should.

"_Dude_," Scott said in a horrible attempt at a whisper.

There was a deep sigh followed by the words, "Alright, Danny, do you think you can answer the question for Mr. Stilinski?"

That was when he lost it.

He wasn't sure why that ended up being the catalyst—maybe it was because normally Finstock would have yelled at him, embarrassed him someway in front of the class, threatened him with extra laps at lacrosse practice, _something _other than just let it go.

All he knew was that one moment he was sitting quietly at his desk, and the next he was standing, shards of glass littered around his feet, his breath coming in heaves as the brisk morning air caressed his cheeks. His chair was nowhere in sight.

Things didn't exactly get better from there.

* * *

"Actually, I thought it was quite impressive. Aren't those windows, like, bulletproof or something? I didn't think a measly chair could ever shatter it like that. In fact, I may have just done you a favor—you should really invest in stronger windows. What are those chairs made out of anyways, plastic and aluminum? It definitely shouldn't have gone through the window so easily. Anyone could break in with windows like that. The entire student body is in danger."

"Mr. Stilinski, are you aware of the amount of damage you have caused? What it's going to cost to get it fixed?" He shifted in his chair, changing tactics with his angle, "Do you realize you put not only your life, but the lives of those around you at risk?"

"I'm pretty sure that was your doing with these faulty windows."

Principal Thorne leveled a look at him, one that said he was beyond fed up with him. But, just like everyone else, he wouldn't push. "Look, I understand this is a really hard time for you," and here we go again, "but don't think this excuses your behavior. If anything like this happens again, I won't take it so lightly."

_You shouldn't be taking it so lightly now_ he wanted to say, but he knew better than to push his luck. As much as he hated the special treatment, he didn't particularly like the idea of a serious offense being stamped on his record.

"I'm sending you to Ms. Morrell," Thorne said as he leaned back in his chair, reaching into a drawer to pull out a pad of paper. "You will see her once a week, on any day of your choosing—"

At that, Stiles began to rethink his earlier position. The last person he wanted to see was a _therapist_. "Oh, come _on_—"

"And you _will_ show up, Mr. Stilinski." There was a hard edge to Thorne's voice, leaving Stiles with no room to argue. "I'm making this mandatory as part of your punishment for the stunt you pulled today. If you do not show up, there will be severe consequences."

Knowing a lost battle when he saw one, he asked instead, "For how long?"

"Until you show yourself to be ready." Thorne ripped off the paper where he'd written a pass, handing it to Stiles with a nod towards the door.

Taking it as his dismissal to go, he snatched the paper while pulling his backpack up onto his shoulder, walking out of Thorne's office without another word.

It was only when he was halfway through chemistry, studiously trying to ignore the stares and whispers of all the other students, did he realize that Principal Thorne had said _part_ of your punishment.


	2. Chapter 2

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Derek was standing in front of what used to be his home. There was still yellow tape tied around the trees, but with time it had sagged in places and torn in others, nothing but pale streamers for the wind to pick up. The grass was dead beneath his feet, and over the past two years what was once the front lawn was buried beneath a solid layer of fall leaves. The front porch seemed to be following close behind with this endeavor, and it was as if the house was trying to meld back into the woods and disappear altogether.

"I still don't understand why you come here."

Derek didn't move at the sound of Laura's voice. He'd heard her drive in, listened to her as she made her way through the woods to the house. It was notably hard to sneak up on a werewolf, even for other weres. But Laura knew Derek would be able to hear her, and that hadn't been her intention anyways.

"I never know what to say to you when you get like this."

"Then don't say anything."

Laura heaved a sigh, kicking at the leaves with the toe of her boot. "You should have gone to school today. Isaac told me that a kid threw a chair through a window in Finstock's class."

Derek raised an eyebrow, finally turning to look at her. "Seriously?"

He could see the slight glint in her eye when he turned to her, knowing that was her way of internally celebrating when she got him to talk, but she didn't say anything of it. Instead, she shrugged. "Apparently. Quite impressive if it's true—thought the windows would be stronger."

"Who was it?"

"Said it was the Stilinski kid."

Derek vaguely knew of him, had seen him a few times in school; he was a scrawny kid that had a loud mouth. His father had been the one assigned to their case after the fire. He was a nice enough guy, something Derek had truly appreciated, and also why he'd felt so bad having to lie to him. "Didn't think he'd have it in him."

"You and the rest of the school, I'm sure," Laura said with a shrug, turning back to look at the house. "But, you know, kid's going through a tough time... Guess everything finally got to him."

He could hear her voice pitch lower at the end of that sentence, knowing her thoughts were drifting to their own tragic history. Laura hated coming here, hated being reminded of what they'd lost. Occasionally she'd come by to pay her respects, or collect Derek whenever need be, but otherwise she avoided it at all costs.

Derek, on the other hand, came here a lot. He attributed it to his masochism, a punishment to have to stand at the sight of his greatest betrayal. When he closed his eyes, he could pretend to smell the scent of dinner baking in the oven, of fresh laundry being put away, of his brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins—of _family_. In reality, all that was left was the lingering scent of burnt flesh and charred wood.

"Was there a reason you came?" he asked, keeping any distinguishable tone from his voice.

She blinked a few times, looking back over at him as if she'd forgotten that he was there. "Oh, um, no… not really. Just makin' sure my little brother is alright."

"Peter sent you, didn't he?"

He could practically hear her eyes roll. "You know, he does care about you Derek, despite what you might think."

He merely grunted in response.

After the fire, Peter had become their guardian. He moved them to a fairly large house on the outskirts of town, far from their old house but still nestled with its back to the woods. In truth it wasn't much, but it was enough for them. Peter pretty much let them live their own lives; he wasn't so much a parent figure as he was a benefactor.

"Speaking of Peter," Laura pushed on, "will you be joining us in the festivities planned for Friday?"

"What?"

"Peter's throwing a party," she said in a _what else could I possibly be talking about_ tone. "Well, no—_I'm _technically throwing it, but he's supplying the refreshments."

"That was a terrible segue," he spoke flatly.

"He said it would be good for you to come," she continued, as if he'd said nothing at all, "that you needed to loosen up a little. I can't say I don't agree with him. You've been doing that whole broody, the-world-is-against-me thing again," she said with a wrinkle of her nose. "I think it's time you had some joy thrust back in your life."

"Laura," he began with a deep sigh, "I—"

"Nope!" she cut him off before he could finish. "No if, ands, or buts. You're going. I _may_ have left out the part where it was non-negotiable."

He leveled her with the infamous Hale glare, but it was completely lost on her. When Laura wanted something, she tended to get it no matter what. That war was lost before it had even started.

"Oh, don't give me that," she embellished with a roll of her eyes. "Besides, the whole pack is going. It'll be fun!"

Derek made an irritated noise in response.

"Hey, none of that! Just because you don't like them doesn't mean we shouldn't bond with our pack—"

"_Your_ pack, Laura," he snapped. "Not mine."

There was a notable pause where Derek could almost feel Laura suppressing her alpha instincts to put him in line. After she'd become alpha, she'd promised to never use her power over him beyond when it was absolutely necessary. While she had always been his older sister, having grown up so close made the adjustment to her power more difficult.

"Derek," she began slowly, keeping her voice even, "they're _our_ pack, both of us. You need to bond with them as much as I do."

"No Laura, I really don't. They're your pack; you chose them, now they're your responsibility."

"And part of that responsibility is making sure this pack functions well as a unit, that everyone is included," she shot back. "I know you didn't ask for this Derek, but, like it or not, they're part of this pack now. Besides, they're good kids. Just give them a chance," she ended on a sigh, the closest her voice would get to a plea.

After a long pause, Derek conceded that it would just be better to give in on this occasion rather than keep antagonizing her. "Fine."

"Thank you," she nodded softly, her lips spreading in a small smile as she reached up to touch his arm. He instinctually leaned into the touch, enjoying the affectionate touch from his sister—his _alpha_—before she dropped her hand, turning to head back towards the car.

"It could have been just us, you know," he mused aloud. "We could have left, made it on our own."

He heard her footsteps come to a stop at his words, and felt rather than saw the sadness that no doubt colored her features. "Der..." She paused, as if considering her words before continuing. "Truthfully? I wouldn't give us a week. Remember all the trouble we used to get into? Just imagine us out there on our own; we'd probably get ourselves into more trouble than we could ever sweet-talk our way out of."

The lighthearted tone from before had seeped back into her voice, and despite himself Derek couldn't stop the small smile that pulled at his lips from the memories. "You never know; maybe we've grown out of that."

She gave a derisive laugh. "Yeah, right. I'll see you at home."

Derek listened to her turn and head back to her car, listened as she drove away until the car was a mere hum in the distance, blending in with all the others.

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket, staring back up at the burnt shell of his old life. Maybe the party wouldn't be too bad; it'd been awhile since he'd been social in any form, and while the idea didn't exactly thrill him, maybe it _was_ time for him to return to society. And even though he didn't agree with Laura's choice of pack members, he knew he would have to get used to them eventually.

And maybe he could allow this anniversary to pass without any pain.


	3. Chapter 3

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As it turned out, Stiles also got detention for the entire week.

In all honestly, he deserved worse than this. But that didn't make him resent it any less; if anything, it made him resent it more.

Thankfully, with lacrosse season in full swing, it wasn't Finstock who ran detention; instead, it was Mr. Harris. Normally this would put Stiles on edge since he was pretty sure the man had a personal vendetta against him, but for once it was actually nice to be leveled with the same glare the chemistry teacher reserved for the rest of the detention regulars—like they were the scum of the earth and an utter waste of time and effort.

It wasn't too hard to figure out who they were after a few days either. Most kids only got a day's worth of detention, so they were gone by the next day. There were a few, though, who showed up every day, usually late, and looked as though detention was practically a second home for them. They shamelessly goaded Harris—always at the threat of another detention, but at that point it must have been for appearance's sake since they _always_ had detention—and never did any work assigned to them.

Terry Johnson used this time to fill up his notebook with doodles, Brian Cunningham made spit balls and hurled them at Terry, Sarah Miller was either texting furiously or, after Harris inevitably took her phone, fiddling with anything near her she could get her hands on, and Stephen Pratt was in a different universe all together. No one was sure if he even knew he was in detention most of the time, but he showed up every day at five-past like clock-work. He never said anything, and usually sat far away from everyone else. Stiles wondered what he did to get in here, but thought it better not to ask.

It wasn't until Thursday that he met Erica Reyes.

About fifteen minutes into their two-hour purgatory, the door flew open to a whirl of blond curls and leather.

"Ms. Reyes, how nice of you to join us. Care to explain where you've been for the past three days?"

"My cat died," she replied curtly, dropping her purse with a thud on the desk next to Stiles' before slipping gracefully into her seat. "I was in mourning."

"Is that so?" Mr. Harris replied in a tone of blatant disbelief.

"Yes," Erica replied in a _you-must-be-stupid-or-deaf_ tone of voice. "You couldn't have _honestly_ expected me to come to school after that. Mittens was my one true friend in this world; she meant everything to me." To her credit, Stiles thought he actually saw tears rimming her eyes. "Besides, isn't there some 'death in the family' clause to being absent from school? I was completely within my rights to stay home with her during her last few days on this earth."

Mr. Harris looked like he was about contest that 'death in the family' didn't extend to pets, but thought better of it and merely grumbled a 'sorry for your loss' that didn't sound the tiniest bit sincere.

Erica gave a sickeningly sweet smile in return. "Thank you, Mr. Harris. That means a lot coming from you."

Mr. Harris didn't reply, merely went back to grading papers. With his attention gone, Erica shifted her own attention on Stiles. "Hey, you the kid who threw the chair through the window?"

It was in that moment that he realized he would never live this down. "Bingo! I do believe we have a winner. Want a prize?" he replied in monotone, not really in the mood to be interrogated about the event.

"Sarcastic," she said as if placing a label on a book, a small tug of a smile pulling at the corner of her lips. "What happened? Never known you to be much of a troublemaker."

"I could say the same about you," he deflected.

He'd never actually hung out with Erica, but he'd known about her, just like the rest of the school. She was the girl who has seizures, an introvert who kept to herself and avoided all social activities like the plague. Beyond that, however, she was a model student who never caused any problems—at least, that's how it was up until a few months ago. Seemingly out of the blue it was as if a designer from Glamour Magazine had given her a makeover, and consequently she was bumped up to the top of the 'most desirable' list in their school—hell, probably within the county. But along with this new look also came a new attitude, one that found her in detention more often than not.

"Yeah, well, maybe I was just fed up with taking shit from everyone," she brushed off with a shrug.

"I guess you could say the same for me," Stiles replied, leaning forward to rest his chin on his palm.

There was a subtle shift in her expression, one Stiles was all too familiar with these days. To Erica's credit, though, it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. "You should come to the Hale's party Friday night."

That caught Stiles completely off guard. "I should... _what_?"

"Party. Hale's. Friday night. I don't see what's hard to understand about that," she said with a flick of her hair. "You should come. Trust me, it'll be good for you."

Stiles was wary of the smile that came along with those words, but more so of the words themselves. He knew the story of the Hales—everyone in Beacon Hills did—but he'd never personally met any of them. The closest he came was when the fire happened; his dad had been the first officer on the scene, and Stiles just happened to be in the car when his dad responded to the call.

"I can't just," he gave a vague gesture with his hand, "_show up_. I don't know any of them. Besides which, I have no reason to be there."

She waved it off with, "You can be my plus one."

He narrowed his eyes warily. "Why are you asking me to go?"

"I _told_ you already," she said as if it physically pained her to repeat herself, "it will be good for you."

"And what reason do you have for helping me? We've barely spoken since the sixth grade."

"Let me ask you this, Stiles," she said as she turned to face him fully. "Would you rather stay at home and wallow in your sorrow, or forget it all and just let yourself have fun for _one night_?" Her voice gave a tone of finality, as if this would be the last time she'd ask him and, consequently, the last chance he'd have to make up his mind.

He thought over it for a long moment, debating whether this was a good idea. Part of him warned that it seemed too easy, that she had no reason to invite him. Another told him to stay home and take care of his dad, who he knew would be spending his night with the usual bottle in his hand. Yet still another, the part that'd been slowly clawing at his insides, desperately trying to climb out of his skin and experience the world like he used to, screamed at him to go.

He took a deep breath and, after weighing each option, decided to abandon his last remaining shred of self-preservation.

"What time is it?"

Because what did he really have to lose, anyway?

"Excuse me," the very put-upon voice of Mr. Harris spoke from behind his desk, "but last time I checked, this was _detention_, not social hour. If you cannot abide by the rules, then I assure you I will give you something to keep you _very_ busy for the rest of the time."

A wicked grin painted Erica's lips as she turned back in her seat. "Come around 9."


End file.
